not felt it.''

``Surely you have been stirred by the
wonders man has accomplished in
music's realm?'' Diotti ventured.

``I never have been.'' She spoke
sadly and reflectively.

``But does not the passion-laden theme
of a master, or the marvelous feeling of
a player awaken your emotions?'' persisted he.

She stood leaning lightly against a
pillar by the fountain. ``I never hear a
pianist, however great and famous, but
I see the little cream-colored hammers
within the piano bobbing up and down
like acrobatic brownies. I never hear
the plaudits of the crowd for the
artist and watch him return to bow his
thanks, but I mentally demand that
these little acrobats, each resting on an
individual pedestal, and weary from his
efforts, shall appear to receive a share
of the applause.

``When I listen to a great singer,''
continued this world-defying skeptic,
``trilling like a thrush, scampering over